Pearls on a String

By Jane Merling

"A captivating historical fiction that uncovers family secrets and connects the past to the present." - Tomi Alo, Independent Book Review

Winner of the Literary Titan Silver Book Award!

Featured as one of the "Best Books We Read This Year (2022)" by Independent Book Review

• Language: English
• Publisher: BayMar Publishing
• Release date: Nov 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781778088773

Jane Merling

Jane Merling has had a book in her hands for as long as she can remember. After a long, successful career in accounting, this Canadian born author now enjoys spending her days in her beachside community on Lake Huron.Jane has been an avid reader all her life and when she finds an author she likes she reads as much of their work as possible. She belongs to a book club and often try authors on the recommendation of other members.

Book preview

Part One

Chapter One

My Grandparents

My grandparents died in the early 1960s, more than twenty years ago. My grandmother passed first, and it was a devastating blow to my family. I was thirteen at the time and being my first experience with death, I was troubled and perplexed about the whole thing. She was the quintessential Grandma— always happy to see and fuss over us. She was an extraordinary cook. Her specialty was primarily German cuisine, as German was her heritage. However, she was also surprisingly good at Italian cuisine as well. No one has ever come close to making lasagna like she used to.

I realized as I grew older that we never completely get over the loss of a loved one. Grief does fade, but the memories stay there, just waiting to be triggered at unexpected times.

She had a stroke. Funny word, I thought at the time. One I would associate with the stroke of midnight or a stroke of lightning, not the taking of someone’s life. But that’s what happened, one minute she was there and the next she was gone.

Another oddity was that we all got new clothes which were usually reserved for special occasions like Christmas, birthdays, and back to school. I was starting to really enjoy new clothes and the whole shopping experience, but this just felt wrong.

Visitation the evening before the funeral was horrible. I wandered around the funeral home and heard people make comments like, The family will get closure. The only closure I wanted was to have the casket closed; I couldn’t bear to see my grandmother that way. Some people said, She looks so natural. I didn’t think so. Natural was her in the kitchen with her apron on, whipping up delicious meals for us. There was nothing natural about seeing her this way. My grandmother loved birthday parties. We always got to choose the menu for our birthday, including what kind of birthday cake we wanted, and she would bring out hats and decorate the table. She would hide some coins in the cake batter, and we all hoped we would find one in our piece of cake. If my mom or dad found one, they would give the quarter or dime to the birthday person, but we would have to earn it by telling a joke or singing a song.

We had just celebrated my brother’s birthday a few weeks before and mine was next. I didn’t know how I would get through a birthday without her.

I sat beside my father the next day at the service, and I could feel the tension in him as he sat very still with his hands clasped in front of him. I spent most of the service staring at my new patent leather shoes. I really wanted to love them but couldn’t quite bring myself to.

My grandfather was sitting at the end of the row beside my brothers, and at one point I felt my father glance his way. Dad stiffened and his jaw tightened. My grandfather had no real expression on his face. He certainly did not look like someone who had just lost his wife.

Whereas my grandmother was warm and kind, my grandfather was sullen and cantankerous. He never really interacted with us kids and to be honest we were a bit afraid of him. He wasn’t particularly mean, just disconnected, and disinterested.

As kids, we accept the people in our lives as they are, largely because they are there when we arrive, full-grown and wearing the mantel of ‘parent’ or ‘grandparent.’ What else could they possibly be? I took for granted that these elders had always been that way and it certainly never crossed my mind to think about my grandparents, or parents for that matter, in any other way than as I had always known them. I never wondered about their past, or what their younger lives had been like.

There was a lunch provided after the funeral and we adjourned to the basement of the church. The women were scurrying around putting out sandwiches, pastries, coffee, tea, and juice. There were a lot of people there and again I took in bits of conversation. The atmosphere was decidedly different— more relaxed, lighter. People milled around with small plates of food in their hands or sat at tables and told stories about my grandmother. With the selfishness of youth, I thought my grandmother belonged to me and my family, but I learned that she did things for other people as well. She would have probably been one of the women seeing to other people’s comfort at times just like this one. It made me feel good. I noticed my grandfather sitting at a table in the corner with a few other men, a cup of coffee on the table in front of him, saying nothing with a very dour look on his face. I wondered what he was thinking.

I wasn’t completely oblivious to my family’s dynamic. I would spend the night with my grandparents occasionally if my parents were going to be out late. One such time, at about the age of eight, I observed that my grandparents did not share the same bedroom. I remember asking my mother about it. She told me that children should be seen and not heard, so that was the end of that discussion. But telling me to mind my own business only piqued my interest in the matter.

Another thing that had been obvious was that my grandmother was a tall woman for her generation, slim and rather stately. My father is over six feet tall, and my brothers and I have the height gene, too. But my grandfather was short, (shorter than my grandmother) and stocky. Curious things that I had observed and tucked away.

I have two older brothers; Dave is the eldest, good at sports, loves animals, and anything to do with camping and the outdoors. Mike is the middle child, artistic, and an amateur photographer who has a knack for capturing very different and unique pictures.

We were busy teens, and all had part-time jobs as well as school, so often only saw each other in passing as we pursued our individual interests. But our parents had a firm rule that we all had to attend family dinner on Sundays. As well as hosting birthdays and other special events, my grandmother had often invited us for Sunday dinner at her house for no reason other than that she enjoyed cooking for all of us. She left a void in our Sundays when she died that we didn’t quite know how to fill. My mother could put on as good a meal as anyone, but I think she enjoyed a break from cooking on those Sundays.

My mother worried about my grandfather being on his own and insisted that he be invited to our house for Sunday dinner. He owned a shoe manufacturing business and my father worked for him from the time he was a young man. My grandfather was a harsh taskmaster, and my father would often come home tired and downtrodden. He had to see him every day and wasn’t crazy about having him over for dinner every Sunday, but my mother won out in the end.

The first few Sundays were very awkward. At my grandparent’s house, my grandfather had kind of faded into the woodwork as we all enjoyed my grandmother’s company, but at our house, he stuck out like a sore thumb. Not to mention that he was a constant reminder that my grandmother was no longer with us. But over time we accepted his presence, and it became the new normal that he was there even though he contributed very little to the conversation or rarely complimented my mother on the meal or thanked her for the invitation. My mother always sent him home with enough leftovers to last a few days, so she felt she was doing her part to keep him fed.

This went on for almost two years until one afternoon I came home from school to find my mother pacing the floor in obvious distress. I learned that my grandfather had collapsed in the factory that afternoon and had been rushed to the hospital. My father was still at the hospital, and she was waiting for word from him. It wasn’t good news; my grandfather has suffered a massive heart attack and there was nothing the doctors would do for him.

My grandfather’s funeral was much more subdued than my grandmother’s, but there was a lot of commotion afterward. Being an only child, my father inherited everything. He spent weeks meeting with lawyers and there was a lot of discussion about what to do. My family lived in a rented house throughout my childhood. My grandfather had not been known for his generosity and did not pay my father enough to buy a house in those days. They insisted that my mother’s income from her part-time job went into education funds for my brothers and me, as my parents were big on education and wanted us to have opportunities that had not been available to them. My parents talked about selling my grandparent’s house, but my mother liked it and it was larger than the one we were renting, so in the end, we moved into it.

The house had become quite stale with only my grandfather living there so my mother gave it a thorough cleaning, removed the heavy drapes that hung at the windows, and got rid of some of the old furniture. Then she arranged to have the inside of the house painted and it took on a new life. She also updated the kitchen with some new appliances and had a few of the cupboard doors replaced with glass inserts. No one said anything about the kitchen, but I think she wanted to reinvent that space as her own after so many years of it being my grandmother’s domain.

Dave finished high school and wanted to become a veterinarian. He planned to work for a year or so to help pay for his education, but now my parents were able to send him right away. He left shortly after for the University of Guelph to pursue his degree, so, other than on certain weekends or holidays, he never actually lived in my grandparent’s house.

My father carried on the business for a few years until a group of investors approached him wanting to buy the building. Imports were starting to put a lot of pressure on the shoe industry; the investors had no interest in the business but wanted the property. My father said it was the best thing that ever happened to that business.

The sale of the factory improved things for my family yet again. Mike was finishing high school and he wanted to go to Montreal to study graphic art. My parents had many discussions with him about moving so far away, but that was what he wanted, and in the end, they were able to afford to see him fulfill his dreams. Mike lives up to his status as the middle child and has always been a bit different from the rest of us.

Chapter Two

Changes

The group of investors who bought the shoe factory wanted the property as part of a vision they saw for the area. To Dad, the factory was a large old building made of brick and mortar, well-worn and showing its age, but they saw the potential for many small manufacturing concerns that would make the district appealing—these businesses could be cloistered together rather than here and there around the city. They felt it would attract tourists as well as locals who could buy specialty items made on site.

As Dad knew every inch of the building, the investors offered him a position as a consultant to the start-up businesses. But first, some things had to be done, such as contracting new zoning laws and renovations to the building. It turned out that Dad had a knack for dealing with city officials and planning boards and as he knew the building so well, he was the ideal person to work with new tenants. Over the years the old shoe factory became home to a glass-blowing business, a tannery, pottery shops, independent jewellers, and many others. Even a modern blacksmith shop that made one-of-a-kind signs and ornaments in rod iron. The area took on a new life and became home to restaurants, seasonal outdoor markets, and live entertainment.

What had once been little more than a place where Dad logged many long hours, became a new and exciting world for him and he was happier than he had ever been. He once told me that where the ‘old girl’ had once worn plain sensible shoes, she was now stepping out in fashionable high-heeled sandals. I laughed at Dad’s metaphor but had to admit that he was right. Eventually, he no longer worked exclusively for the investors. Word of mouth had gotten around, and many others turned to him for advice. A consulting business that he operated for many years was suddenly born.

Dave met Sherri during his first year at the University of Guelph. She was a fellow student, studying business administration, and right from the beginning they did not look to the right or the left of each other. They knew they were meant to be and married right after graduation. They now live in Mississauga with two kids and a Golden Retriever named Molson. Dave worked for an older veterinarian in his small animal clinic for years but when the owner decided on retirement, Dave purchased the business from him. Sherri runs the business end of things while Dave tends to the animals.

Mike stayed in Montreal after earning a degree in graphic arts and shares a loft with Marc, a chef, and part-owner of a popular downtown restaurant. I knew my family pretended that Mike and Marc were roommates, but the reality is that they are much more than that. HIV and Aids were in the news a lot, which was a big concern, but no one talked about that.

I stayed at home with my parents until I obtained an accounting degree and secured a job in one of the big firms. Seeking independence, I moved to a downtown apartment and struck out as a modern young, businesswoman. I thrived in my professional life but stumbled badly in my personal life. I met Ron at a party and thought he was charming and charismatic, the center of attention. He is an advertising executive and was born a salesman. Our relationship moved fast and furious and within a year we were married.

The things that attracted me to him became the bane of my existence. Too late, I realized he always needed to be the center of attention and saw me in a supporting role. He moved us into a condo on the 20th floor of a building filled with glass, chrome, and black leather. I came to think of it as the ‘ice palace.’ He brought people into our life that served a purpose for him but faded away when he no longer needed them. These people had no substance as far as I was concerned, and I did not form any lasting relationships.

He had an expense account that covered his wining and dining with clients, so he just handed the bills over to the firm. He expected the same of me and at times I was overwhelmed by his spending. His Machiavellian ways shattered our relationship.

I settled into the owner-managed business sector of the accounting firm and fell in love with my work. My clients are people I admire, those who put their heart and soul into making what they love into a viable business. These people are hardworking, and good at what they do, but often struggle with the financial end of things. I help them set up financial plans, arrange leases, accounting practices, and many other things to make their life easier. My husband criticized me for this, calling these businesses small time. Most of them could not afford the fees his firm charged and so, of course, they were of no use to him. As much as he belittled what I did to help these businesses navigate the world of finance, he expected the same from me in our financial life.

I compromised far too much in our marriage and it started to frighten me; I was afraid that I was getting lost in the muck and settling for something less than what I wanted, needed, or deserved. I knew I had choices and had to act on them before I settled into a life I did not want.

Someone left a newspaper on the table in a small café where I was having a solo lunch one day. It was open to the Ann Landers column, and I read it as I ate. One of the letters was from a young woman living in a marriage with a domineering spouse. Ann’s advice was to decide if she was better off with him as a subordinate or without him where she could live the life she wanted. I took her advice vicariously and decided I was better off without my husband.

I had negotiated a low-interest mortgage on the condo, and it had gone up in value over the few years that we owned it. My half of the equity and a good income allowed me to buy a small home on the Beaches.

Chapter Three

The Beaches

My husband thought I was crazy to give up his lifestyle and he told people that, but I was beyond caring what he or his current friends thought of me. I loved the Beaches. It had the feel of a small town with lots of little indie shops, pubs and cafes, and a boardwalk along the lake. I bought a bicycle so I could ride or walk all over the area. I shopped in the stores and knew many people by name. I was situated a short walk to the beach in one direction and the streetcar in the other for a quick ride uptown to my office. No more travelling underground on the subways for me!

My house was nestled between larger homes but was cozy and comfortable. It was a bungalow with a front porch that spanned the width of the house and a small garden in the back. It had a center hall design with a living room to the left, a wood-burning fireplace, and built-in bookshelves on each side. French doors opened to a small dining room across the hall. The kitchen was directly behind the dining room with white cabinetry and updated appliances. All the windows had been replaced except for the two front ones, thank goodness, which had leaded glass. I loved that house at first sight and knew it was the place for me.

My parents came to see my little house and we walked on the beach to admire the lake. They asked me if I was okay and accepted that I was now a single woman again. They were concerned parents, but not overbearing. They sacrificed for us, as most parents do, but had never been good at sharing their feelings. I remember thinking there was a lot more to my parents than met the eye. The line between my parents and me had always bobbed and weaved. I wondered on that day if